[Part 11] "Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows" by Rowling J.K.
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CHAPTER XXI. THE TALE OF THE THREE BROTHERS
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Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione.
Neither of them seemed to have understood what Xenophilius had said either.
“The Deathly Hallows?”
“That’s right,” said Xenophilius.
“You haven’t heard of them?
I’m not surprised.
Very, very few wizards believe.
Witness that knuckleheaded young man at your brother’s wedding,” he nodded at Ron, “who attacked me for sporting the symbol of a well-known Dark wizard!
Such ignorance.
There is nothing Dark about the Hallows — at least, not in that crude sense.
One simply uses the symbol to reveal oneself to other believers, in the hope that they might help one with the Quest.”
He stirred several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot infusion and drank some.
“I’m sorry,” said Harry.
“I still don’t really understand.”
To be polite, he took a sip from his cup too, and almost gagged: The stuff was quite disgusting, as though someone had liquidized bogey-flavored Every Flavor Beans.
“Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows,” said Xenophilius, smacking his lips in apparent appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion.
“But what are the Deathly Hallows?” asked Hermione.
Xenophilius set aside his empty teacup.
“I assume that you are all familiar with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’?”
Harry said, “No,” but Ron and Hermione both said, “Yes.”
Xenophilius nodded gravely.
“Well, well, Mr. Potter, the whole thing starts with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ . . . I have a copy somewhere. . . .”
He glanced vaguely around the room, at the piles of parchment and books, but Hermione said, “I’ve got a copy, Mr. Lovegood, I’ve got it right here.”
And she pulled out The Tales of Beedle the Bard from the small, beaded bag.
“The original?” inquired Xenophilius sharply, and when she nodded, he said, “Well then, why don’t you read it aloud?
Much the best way to make sure we all understand.”
“Er . . . all right,” said Hermione nervously.
She opened the book, and Harry saw that the symbol they were investigating headed the top of the page as she gave a little cough, and began to read.
“‘There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight —’”
“Midnight, our mum always told us,” said Ron, who had stretched out, arms behind his head, to listen.
Hermione shot him a look of annoyance.
“Sorry, I just think it’s a bit spookier if it’s midnight!” said Ron.
“Yeah, because we really need a bit more fear in our lives,” said Harry before he could stop himself.
Xenophilius did not seem to be paying much attention, but was staring out of the window at the sky.
“Go on, Hermione.”
“‘In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across.
However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water.
They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure.
“‘And Death spoke to them —’”
“Sorry,” interjected Harry, “but Death spoke to them?”
“It’s a fairy tale, Harry!”
“Right, sorry.
Go on.”
“‘And Death spoke to them.
He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river.
But Death was cunning.
He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic, and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.
“‘So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death!
So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.
“‘Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death.
So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.
“‘And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like.
The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death.
So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death.
And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.’”
“Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry interrupted again.
“So he can sneak up on people,” said Ron.
“Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking . . . sorry, Hermione.”
“‘Then Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on their way, and they did so, talking with wonder of the adventure they had had, and admiring Death’s gifts.
“‘In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination.
“‘The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel.
Naturally, with the Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed.
Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible.
“‘That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed.
The thief took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother’s throat.
“‘And so Death took the first brother for his own.
“‘Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone.
Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand.
To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry, before her untimely death, appeared at once before him.
“‘Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil.
Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered.
Finally the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as truly to join her.
“‘And so Death took the second brother for his own.
“‘But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him.
It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son.
And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life.’”
Hermione closed the book.
It was a moment or two before Xenophilius seemed to realize that she had stopped reading, then he withdrew his gaze from the window and said, “Well, there you are.”
“Sorry?” said Hermione, sounding confused.
“Those are the Deathly Hallows,” said Xenophilius.
He picked up a quill from a packed table at his elbow, and pulled a torn piece of parchment from between more books.
“The Elder Wand,” he said, and he drew a straight vertical line upon the parchment.
“The Resurrection Stone,” he said, and he added a circle on top of the line.
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“The Cloak of Invisibility,” he finished, enclosing both line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbol that so intrigued Hermione.
“Together,” he said, “the Deathly Hallows.”
“But there’s no mention of the words ‘Deathly Hallows’ in the story,” said Hermione.
“Well, of course not,” said Xenophilius, maddeningly smug.
“That is a children’s tale, told to amuse rather than to instruct.
Those of us who understand these matters, however, recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor master of Death.”
There was a short silence in which Xenophilius glanced out of the window.
Already the sun was low in the sky.
“Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon,” he said quietly.
“When you say ‘master of Death’ —” said Ron.
“Master,” said Xenophilius, waving an airy hand.
“Conqueror.
Vanquisher.
Whichever term you prefer.”
“But then . . . do you mean . . .” said Hermione slowly, and Harry could tell that she was trying to keep any trace of skepticism out of her voice, “that you believe these objects — these Hallows — actually exist?”
Xenophilius raised his eyebrows again.
“Well, of course.”
“But,” said Hermione, and Harry could hear her restraint starting to crack, “Mr. Lovegood, how can you possibly believe — ?”
“Luna has told me all about you, young lady,” said Xenophilius.
“You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but painfully limited.
Narrow.
Close-minded.”
“Perhaps you ought to try on the hat, Hermione,” said Ron, nodding toward the ludicrous headdress.
His voice shook with the strain of not laughing.
“Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione began again.
“We all know that there are such things as Invisibility Cloaks.
They are rare, but they exist.
But —”
“Ah, but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of Invisibility, Miss Granger!
I mean to say, it is not a traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm, or carrying a Bedazzling Hex, or else woven from Demiguise hair, which will hide one initially but fade with the years until it turns opaque.
We are talking about a cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it.
How many cloaks have you ever seen like that, Miss Granger?”
Hermione opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again, looking more confused than ever.
She, Harry, and Ron glanced at one another, and Harry knew that they were all thinking the same thing.
It so happened that a cloak exactly like the one Xenophilius had just described was in the room with them at that very moment.
“Exactly,” said Xenophilius, as if he had defeated them all in reasoned argument.
“None of you have ever seen such a thing.
The possessor would be immeasurably rich, would he not?”
He glanced out of the window again.
The sky was now tinged with the faintest trace of pink.
“All right,” said Hermione, disconcerted.
“Say the Cloak existed . . . what about the stone, Mr. Lovegood?
The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?”
“What of it?”
“Well, how can that be real?”
“Prove that it is not,” said Xenophilius.
Hermione looked outraged.
“But that’s — I’m sorry, but that’s completely ridiculous!
How can I possibly prove it doesn’t exist?
Do you expect me to get hold of — of all the pebbles in the world and test them?
I mean, you could claim that anything’s real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody’s proved it doesn’t exist!”
“Yes, you could,” said Xenophilius.
“I am glad to see that you are opening your mind a little.”
“So the Elder Wand,” said Harry quickly, before Hermione could retort, “you think that exists too?”
“Oh, well, in that case there is endless evidence,” said Xenophilius.
“The Elder Wand is the Hallow that is most easily traced, because of the way in which it passes from hand to hand.”
“Which is what?” asked Harry.
“Which is that the possessor of the wand must capture it from its previous owner, if he is to be truly master of it,” said Xenophilius.
“Surely you have heard of the way the wand came to Egbert the Egregious, after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil?
Of how Godelot died in his own cellar after his son, Hereward, took the wand from him?
Of the dreadful Loxias, who took the wand from Barnabas Deverill, whom he had killed?
The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history.”
Harry glanced at Hermione.
She was frowning at Xenophilius, but she did not contradict him.
“So where do you think the Elder Wand is now?” asked Ron.
“Alas, who knows?” said Xenophilius, as he gazed out of the window.
“Who knows where the Elder Wand lies hidden?
The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius.
Who can say which of them really defeated Loxias, and which took the wand?
And who can say who may have defeated them?
History, alas, does not tell us.”
There was a pause.
Finally Hermione asked stiffly, “Mr. Lovegood, does the Peverell family have anything to do with the Deathly Hallows?”
Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted in Harry’s memory, but he could not locate it.
Peverell . . . he had heard that name before. . . .
“But you have been misleading me, young woman!” said Xenophilius, now sitting up much straighter in his chair and goggling at Hermione.
“I thought you were new to the Hallows Quest!
Many of us Questers believe that the Peverells have everything — everything!
— to do with the Hallows!”
“Who are the Peverells?” asked Ron.
“That was the name on the grave with the mark on it, in Godric’s Hollow,” said Hermione, still watching Xenophilius.
“Ignotus Peverell.”
“Exactly!” said Xenophilius, his forefinger raised pedantically.
“The sign of the Deathly Hallows on Ignotus’s grave is conclusive proof!”
“Of what?” asked Ron.
“Why, that the three brothers in the story were actually the three Peverell brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus!
That they were the original owners of the Hallows!”
With another glance at the window he got to his feet, picked up the tray, and headed for the spiral staircase.
“You will stay for dinner?” he called, as he vanished downstairs again.
“Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimpy soup.”
“Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. Mungo’s,” said Ron under his breath.
Harry waited until they could hear Xenophilius moving about in the kitchen downstairs before speaking.
“What do you think?” he asked Hermione.
“Oh, Harry,” she said wearily, “it’s a pile of utter rubbish.
This can’t be what the sign really means.
This must just be his weird take on it.
What a waste of time.”
“I s’pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-Horned Snorkacks,” said Ron.
“You don’t believe it either?” Harry asked him.
“Nah, that story’s just one of those things you tell kids to teach them lessons, isn’t it?
‘Don’t go looking for trouble, don’t pick fights, don’t go messing around with stuff that’s best left alone!
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Just keep your head down, mind your own business, and you’ll be okay.’
Come to think of it,” Ron added, “maybe that story’s why elder wands are supposed to be unlucky.”
“What are you talking about?”
“One of those superstitions, isn’t it? ‘May-born witches will marry Muggles.’ ‘Jinx by twilight, undone by midnight.’ ‘Wand of elder, never prosper.’ You must’ve heard them. My mum’s full of them.”
“Harry and I were raised by Muggles,” Hermione reminded him. “We were taught different superstitions.”
She sighed deeply as a rather pungent smell drifted up from the kitchen.
The one good thing about her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it seemed to have made her forget that she was annoyed at Ron.
“I think you’re right,” she told him. “It’s just a morality tale, it’s obvious which gift is best, which one you’d choose —”
The three of them spoke at the same time; Hermione said, “the Cloak,” Ron said, “the wand,” and Harry said, “the stone.”
They looked at each other, half surprised, half amused.
“You’re supposed to say the Cloak,” Ron told Hermione, “but you wouldn’t need to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!”
“We’ve already got an Invisibility Cloak,” said Harry.
“And it’s helped us rather a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed!” said Hermione.
“Whereas the wand would be bound to attract trouble —”
“Only if you shouted about it,” argued Ron. “Only if you were prat enough to go dancing around, waving it over your head, and singing, ‘I’ve got an unbeatable wand, come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’
As long as you kept your trap shut —”
“Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?” said Hermione, looking skeptical.
“You know, the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about extra-powerful wands for hundreds of years.”
“There have?” asked Harry.
Hermione looked exasperated: The expression was so endearingly familiar that Harry and Ron grinned at each other.
“The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up under different names through the centuries, usually in the possession of some Dark wizard who’s boasting about them.
Professor Binns mentioned some of them, but — oh, it’s all nonsense.
Wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them.
Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better than other people’s.”
“But how do you know,” said Harry, “that those wands — the Deathstick and the Wand of Destiny — aren’t the same wand, surfacing over the centuries under different names?”
“What, and they’re all really the Elder Wand, made by Death?” said Ron.
Harry laughed: The strange idea that had occurred to him was, after all, ridiculous.
His wand, he reminded himself, had been of holly, not elder, and it had been made by Ollivander, whatever it had done that night Voldemort had pursued him across the skies.
And if it had been unbeatable, how could it have been broken?
“So why would you take the stone?” Ron asked him.
“Well, if you could bring people back, we could have Sirius . . . Mad-Eye . . . Dumbledore . . . my parents. . . .”
Neither Ron nor Hermione smiled.
“But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn’t want to come back, would they?” said Harry, thinking about the tale they had just heard.
“I don’t suppose there have been loads of other stories about a stone that can raise the dead, have there?” he asked Hermione.
“No,” she replied sadly.
“I don’t think anyone except Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that’s possible.
Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer’s Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you immortal, a stone to reverse death.”
The smell from the kitchen was getting stronger: It was something like burning underpants.
Harry wondered whether it would be possible to eat enough of whatever Xenophilius was cooking to spare his feelings.
“What about the Cloak, though?” said Ron slowly.
“Don’t you realize, he’s right?
I’ve got so used to Harry’s Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to think.
I’ve never heard of one like Harry’s.
It’s infallible.
We’ve never been spotted under it —”
“Of course not — we’re invisible when we’re under it, Ron!”
“But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and they’re not exactly ten a Knut, you know, is true!
It’s never occurred to me before, but I’ve heard stuff about charms wearing off cloaks when they get old, or them being ripped apart by spells so they’ve got holes in.
Harry’s was owned by his dad, so it’s not exactly new, is it, but it’s just . . . perfect!”
“Yes, all right, but Ron, the stone . . .”
As they argued in whispers, Harry moved around the room, only half listening.
Reaching the spiral stair, he raised his eyes absently to the next level and was distracted at once.
His own face was looking back at him from the ceiling of the room above.
After a moment’s bewilderment, he realized that it was not a mirror, but a painting.
Curious, he began to climb the stairs.
“Harry, what are you doing?
I don’t think you should look around when he’s not here!”
But Harry had already reached the next level.
Luna had decorated her bedroom ceiling with five beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville.
They were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic about them all the same: Harry thought they breathed.
What appeared to be fine golden chains wove around the pictures, linking them together, but after examining them for a minute or so, Harry realized that the chains were actually one word, repeated a thousand times in golden ink: friends . . . friends . . . friends . . .
Harry felt a great rush of affection for Luna.
He looked around the room.
There was a large photograph beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who looked very like her.
They were hugging.
Luna looked rather better-groomed in this picture than Harry had ever seen her in life.
The picture was dusty.
This struck Harry as slightly odd.
He stared around.
Something was wrong.
The pale blue carpet was also thick with dust.
There were no clothes in the wardrobe, whose doors stood ajar.
The bed had a cold, unfriendly look, as though it had not been slept in for weeks.
A single cobweb stretched over the nearest window, across a bloodred sky.
“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked as Harry descended the staircase, but before he could respond, Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the kitchen, now holding a tray laden with bowls.
“Mr. Lovegood,” said Harry.
“Where’s Luna?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where’s Luna?”
Xenophilius halted on the top step.
“I — I’ve already told you.
She is down at Bottom Bridge, fishing for Plimpies.”
“So why have you only laid that tray for four?”
Xenophilius tried to speak, but no sound came out.
The only noise was the continued chugging of the printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as Xenophilius’s hands shook.
“I don’t think Luna’s been here for weeks,” said Harry.
“Her clothes are gone, her bed hasn’t been slept in.
Where is she?
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And why do you keep looking out of the window?”
Xenophilius dropped the tray: The bowls bounced and smashed.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione drew their wands: Xenophilius froze, his hand about to enter his pocket.
At that moment the printing press gave a huge bang and numerous Quibblers came streaming across the floor from underneath the tablecloth; the press fell silent at last.
Hermione stooped down and picked up one of the magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr. Lovegood.
“Harry, look at this.”
He strode over to her as quickly as he could through all the clutter.
The front of The Quibbler carried his own picture, emblazoned with the words UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE and captioned with the reward money.
"The Quibbler’s going for a new angle, then?"
Harry asked coldly, his mind working very fast.
"Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden, Mr. Lovegood? Sending an owl to the Ministry?"
Xenophilius licked his lips.
"They took my Luna," he whispered.
"Because of what I’ve been writing. They took my Luna and I don’t know where she is, what they’ve done to her. But they might give her back to me if I — if I —"
"Hand over Harry?" Hermione finished for him.
"No deal," said Ron flatly.
"Get out of the way, we’re leaving."
Xenophilius looked ghastly, a century old, his lips drawn back into a dreadful leer.
"They will be here at any moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not leave."
He spread his arms in front of the staircase, and Harry had a sudden vision of his mother doing the same thing in front of his crib.
"Don’t make us hurt you," Harry said.
"Get out of the way, Mr. Lovegood."
"HARRY!" Hermione screamed.
Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows.
As the three of them looked away from him, Xenophilius drew his wand.
Harry realized their mistake just in time: He launched himself sideways, shoving Ron and Hermione out of harm’s way as Xenophilius’s Stunning Spell soared across the room and hit the Erumpent horn.
There was a colossal explosion.
The sound of it seemed to blow the room apart: Fragments of wood and paper and rubble flew in all directions, along with an impenetrable cloud of thick white dust.
Harry flew through the air, then crashed to the floor, unable to see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his head.
He heard Hermione’s scream, Ron’s yell, and a series of sickening metallic thuds, which told him that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet and fallen backward down the spiral stairs.
Half buried in rubble, Harry tried to raise himself.
He could barely breathe or see for dust.
Half of the ceiling had fallen in, and the end of Luna’s bed was hanging through the hole.
The bust of Rowena Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing.
Fragments of torn parchment were floating through the air, and most of the printing press lay on its side, blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen.
Then another white shape moved close by, and Hermione, coated in dust like a second statue, pressed her finger to her lips.
The door downstairs crashed open.
"Didn’t I tell you there was no need to hurry, Travers?" said a rough voice.
"Didn’t I tell you this nutter was just raving as usual?"
There was a bang and a scream of pain from Xenophilius.
"No . . . no . . . upstairs . . . Potter!"
"I told you last week, Lovegood, we weren’t coming back for anything less than some solid information!"
"Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for that stupid bleeding headdress?"
"And the week before" — another bang, another squeal — "when you thought we’d give her back if you offered us proof there are Crumple" — bang — "Headed" — bang — "Snorkacks?"
"No — no — I beg you!" sobbed Xenophilius.
"It really is Potter! Really!"
"And now it turns out you only called us here to try and blow us up!" roared the Death Eater.
There was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of agony from Xenophilius.
"The place looks like it’s about to fall in, Selwyn," said a cool second voice, echoing up the mangled staircase.
"The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing it? Might bring the place down."
"You lying piece of filth," shouted the wizard named Selwyn.
"You’ve never seen Potter in your life, have you? Thought you’d lure us here to kill us, did you? And you think you’ll get your girl back like this?"
"I swear . . . I swear . . . Potter’s upstairs!"
"Homenum revelio," said the voice at the foot of the stairs.
Harry heard Hermione gasp, and he had the odd sensation that something was swooping low over him, immersing his body in its shadow.
"There’s someone up there all right, Selwyn," said the second man sharply.
"It’s Potter, I tell you, it’s Potter!" sobbed Xenophilius.
"Please . . . please . . . give me Luna, just let me have Luna. . . ."
"You can have your little girl, Lovegood," said Selwyn.
"If you get up those stairs and bring me down Harry Potter. But if this is a plot, if it’s a trick, if you’ve got an accomplice waiting up there to ambush us, we’ll see if we can spare a bit of your daughter for you to bury."
Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair.
There were scurryings and scrapings: Xenophilius was trying to get through the debris on the stairs.
"Come on," Harry whispered.
"We’ve got to get out of here."
He started to dig himself out under cover of all the noise Xenophilius was making on the staircase.
Ron was buried deepest: Harry and Hermione climbed, as quietly as they could, over all the wreckage to where he lay, trying to prise a heavy chest of drawers off his legs.
While Xenophilius’s banging and scraping drew nearer and nearer, Hermione managed to free Ron with the use of a Hover Charm.
"All right," breathed Hermione, as the broken printing press blocking the top of the stairs began to tremble.**
Xenophilius was feet away from them.
She was still white with dust.
"Do you trust me, Harry?"
Harry nodded.
"Okay then," Hermione whispered.
"Give me the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, you’re going to put it on."
"Me? But Harry —"
"Please, Ron! Harry, hold on tight to my hand, Ron, grab my shoulder."
Harry held out his left hand.
Ron vanished beneath the Cloak.
The printing press blocking the stairs was vibrating: Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a Hover Charm.
Harry did not know what Hermione was waiting for.
"Hold tight," she whispered.
"Hold tight . . . any second . . ."
Xenophilius’s paper-white face appeared over the top of the sideboard.
"Obliviate!" cried Hermione, pointing her wand first into his face, then at the floor beneath them.
"Deprimo!"
She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor.
They fell like boulders, Harry still holding onto her hand for dear life.
There was a scream from below, and he glimpsed two men trying to get out of the way as vast quantities of rubble and broken furniture rained all around them from the shattered ceiling.
Hermione twisted in midair and the thundering of the collapsing house rang in Harry’s ears as she dragged him once more into darkness.
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CHAPTER XXII. THE DEATHLY HALLOWS
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Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at once.
They seemed to have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a circle around them, waving her wand.
“Protego Totalum . . . Salvio Hexia . . .”
“That treacherous old bleeder!” Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility Cloak and throwing it to Harry.
“Hermione, you’re a genius, a total genius, I can’t believe we got out of that!”
“Cave Inimicum . . . Didn’t I say it was an Erumpent horn, didn’t I tell him?
And now his house has been blown apart!”
“Serves him right,” said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs.
“What d’you reckon they’ll do to him?”
“Oh, I hope they don’t kill him!” groaned Hermione.
“That’s why I wanted the Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn’t been lying!”
“Why hide me, though?” asked Ron.
“You’re supposed to be in bed with spattergroit, Ron!
They’ve kidnapped Luna because her father supported Harry!
What would happen to your family if they knew you’re with him?”
“But what about your mum and dad?”
“They’re in Australia,” said Hermione.
“They should be all right.
They don’t know anything.”
“You’re a genius,” Ron repeated, looking awed.
“Yeah, you are, Hermione,” agreed Harry fervently.
“I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
She beamed, but became solemn at once.
“What about Luna?”
“Well, if they’re telling the truth and she’s still alive —” began Ron.
“Don’t say that, don’t say it!” squealed Hermione.
“She must be alive, she must!”
“Then she’ll be in Azkaban, I expect,” said Ron.
“Whether she survives the place, though . . . Loads don’t. . . .”
“She will,” said Harry.
He could not bear to contemplate the alternative.
“She’s tough, Luna, much tougher than you’d think.
She’s probably teaching all the inmates about Wrackspurts and Nargles.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Hermione.
She passed a hand over her eyes.
“I’d feel so sorry for Xenophilius if —”
“— if he hadn’t just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah,” said Ron.
They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where Ron made them tea.
After their narrow escape, the chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, familiar, and friendly.
“Oh, why did we go there?” groaned Hermione after a few minutes’ silence.
“Harry, you were right, it was Godric’s Hollow all over again, a complete waste of time!
The Deathly Hallows . . . such rubbish . . . although actually,” a sudden thought seemed to have struck her, “he might have made it all up, mightn’t he?
He probably doesn’t believe in the Deathly Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us talking until the Death Eaters arrived!”
“I don’t think so,” said Ron.
“It’s a damn sight harder making stuff up when you’re under stress than you’d think.
I found that out when the Snatchers caught me.
It was much easier pretending to be Stan, because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a whole new person.
Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put.
I reckon he told us the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, just to keep us talking.”
“Well, I don’t suppose it matters,” sighed Hermione.
“Even if he was being honest, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life.”
“Hang on, though,” said Ron.
“The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, wasn’t it?”
“But the Deathly Hallows can’t exist, Ron!”
“You keep saying that, but one of them can,” said Ron.
“Harry’s Invisibility Cloak —”
“‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ is a story,” said Hermione firmly.
“A story about how humans are frightened of death.
If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we’d have everything we need already!”
“I don’t know.
We could do with an unbeatable wand,” said Harry, turning the blackthorn wand he so disliked over in his fingers.
“There’s no such thing, Harry!”
“You said there have been loads of wands — the Deathstick and whatever they were called —”
“All right, even if you want to kid yourself the Elder Wand’s real, what about the Resurrection Stone?”
Her fingers sketched quotation marks around the name, and her tone dripped sarcasm.
“No magic can raise the dead, and that’s that!”
“When my wand connected with You-Know-Who’s, it made my mum and dad appear . . . and Cedric . . .”
“But they weren’t really back from the dead, were they?” said Hermione.
“Those kinds of — of pale imitations aren’t the same as truly bringing someone back to life.”
“But she, the girl in the tale, didn’t really come back, did she?
The story says that once people are dead, they belong with the dead.
But the second brother still got to see her and talk to her, didn’t he?
He even lived with her for a while. . . .”
He saw concern and something less easily definable in Hermione’s expression.
Then, as she glanced at Ron, Harry realized that it was fear: He had scared her with his talk of living with dead people.
“So that Peverell bloke who’s buried in Godric’s Hollow,” he said hastily, trying to sound robustly sane, “you don’t know anything about him, then?”
“No,” she replied, looking relieved at the change of subject.
“I looked him up after I saw the mark on his grave; if he’d been anyone famous or done anything important, I’m sure he’d be in one of our books.
The only place I’ve managed to find the name ‘Peverell’ is Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.
I borrowed it from Kreacher,” she explained as Ron raised his eyebrows.
“It lists the pure-blood families that are now extinct in the male line.
Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest families to vanish.”
“‘Extinct in the male line’?” repeated Ron.
“It means the name’s died out,” said Hermione, “centuries ago, in the case of the Peverells.
They could still have descendants, though, they’d just be called something different.”
And then it came to Harry in one shining piece, the memory that had stirred at the sound of the name “Peverell”: a filthy old man brandishing an ugly ring in the face of a Ministry official, and he cried aloud, “Marvolo Gaunt!”
“Sorry?” said Ron and Hermione together.
“Marvolo Gaunt!
You-Know-Who’s grandfather!
In the Pensieve!
With Dumbledore!
Marvolo Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!”
Ron and Hermione looked bewildered.
“The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux, Marvolo Gaunt said it had the Peverell coat of arms on it!
I saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry’s face, he nearly shoved it up his nose!”
“The Peverell coat of arms?” said Hermione sharply.
“Could you see what it looked like?”
“Not really,” said Harry, trying to remember.
“There was nothing fancy on there, as far as I could see; maybe a few scratches.
I only ever saw it really close up after it had been cracked open.”
Harry saw Hermione’s comprehension in the sudden widening of her eyes.
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Ron was looking from one to the other, astonished.
“Blimey . . . You reckon it was this sign again?
The sign of the Hallows?”
“Why not?” said Harry excitedly.
“Marvolo Gaunt was an ignorant old git who lived like a pig, all he cared about was his ancestry.
If that ring had been passed down through the centuries, he might not have known what it really was.
There were no books in that house, and trust me, he wasn’t the type to read fairy tales to his kids.
He’d have loved to think the scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because as far as he was concerned, having pure blood made you practically royal.”
“Yes . . . and that’s all very interesting,” said Hermione cautiously, “but Harry, if you’re thinking what I think you’re think —”
“Well, why not?
Why not?” said Harry, abandoning caution.
“It was a stone, wasn’t it?”
He looked at Ron for support.
“What if it was the Resurrection Stone?”
Ron’s mouth fell open.
“Blimey — but would it still work if Dumbledore broke — ?”
“Work?
Work?
Ron, it never worked!
There’s no such thing as a Resurrection Stone!”
Hermione had leapt to her feet, looking exasperated and angry.
“Harry, you’re trying to fit everything into the Hallows story —”
“Fit everything in?” he repeated.
“Hermione, it fits of its own accord!
I know the sign of the Deathly Hallows was on that stone!
Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!”
“A minute ago you told us you never saw the mark on the stone properly!”
“Where d’you reckon the ring is now?” Ron asked Harry.
“What did Dumbledore do with it after he broke it open?”
But Harry’s imagination was racing ahead, far beyond Ron and Hermione’s.
Three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor master of Death . . .
Master . . . Conqueror . . . Vanquisher . . .
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. . . .
And he saw himself, possessor of the Hallows, facing Voldemort, whose Horcruxes were no match . . .
Neither can live while the other survives. . . .
Was this the answer?
Hallows versus Horcruxes?
Was there a way, after all, to ensure that he was the one who triumphed?
If he were the master of the Deathly Hallows, would he be safe?
“Harry?”
But he scarcely heard Hermione:
He had pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and was running it through his fingers, the cloth supple as water, light as air.
He had never seen anything to equal it in his nearly seven years in the Wizarding world.
The Cloak was exactly what Xenophilius had described:
A cloak that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it. . . .
And then, with a gasp, he remembered —
“Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents died!”
His voice shook and he could feel the color in his face, but he did not care.
“My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the Cloak!
This is why!
He wanted to examine it, because he thought it was the third Hallow!
Ignotus Peverell is buried in Godric’s Hollow. . . .”
Harry was walking blindly around the tent, feeling as though great new vistas of truth were opening all around him.
“He’s my ancestor!
I’m descended from the third brother!
It all makes sense!”
He felt armed in certainty, in his belief in the Hallows, as if the mere idea of possessing them was giving him protection, and he felt joyous as he turned back to the other two.
“Harry,” said Hermione again, but he was busy undoing the pouch around his neck, his fingers shaking hard.
“Read it,” he told her, pushing his mother’s letter into her hand.
“Read it!
Dumbledore had the Cloak, Hermione!
Why else would he want it?
He didn’t need a Cloak, he could perform a Disillusionment Charm so powerful that he made himself completely invisible without one!”
Something fell to the floor and rolled, glittering, under a chair:
He had dislodged the Snitch when he pulled out the letter.
He stooped to pick it up, and then the newly tapped spring of fabulous discoveries threw him another gift, and shock and wonder erupted inside him so that he shouted out.
“IT’S IN HERE!
He left me the ring — it’s in the Snitch!”
“You — you reckon?”
He could not understand why Ron looked taken aback.
It was so obvious, so clear to Harry:
Everything fit, everything . . .
His Cloak was the third Hallow, and when he discovered how to open the Snitch he would have the second, and then all he needed to do was find the first Hallow, the Elder Wand, and then —
But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage:
All his excitement, all his hope and happiness were extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in the darkness, and the glorious spell was broken.
“That’s what he’s after.”
The change in his voice made Ron and Hermione look even more scared.
“You-Know-Who’s after the Elder Wand.”
He turned his back on their strained, incredulous faces.
He knew it was the truth.
It all made sense.
Voldemort was not seeking a new wand; he was seeking an old wand, a very old wand indeed.
Harry walked to the entrance of the tent, forgetting about Ron and Hermione as he looked out into the night, thinking. . . .
Voldemort had been raised in a Muggle orphanage.
Nobody could have told him The Tales of Beedle the Bard when he was a child, any more than Harry had heard them.
Hardly any wizards believed in the Deathly Hallows.
Was it likely that Voldemort knew about them?
Harry gazed into the darkness. . . .
If Voldemort had known about the Deathly Hallows, surely he would have sought them, done anything to possess them:
Three objects that made the possessor master of Death?
If he had known about the Deathly Hallows, he might not have needed Horcruxes in the first place.
Didn’t the simple fact that he had taken a Hallow, and turned it into a Horcrux, demonstrate that he did not know this last great Wizarding secret?
Which meant that Voldemort sought the Elder Wand without realizing its full power, without understanding that it was one of three . . .
For the wand was the Hallow that could not be hidden, whose existence was best known. . . .
The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding history. . . .
Harry watched the cloudy sky, curves of smoke-gray and silver sliding over the face of the white moon.
He felt lightheaded with amazement at his discoveries.
He turned back into the tent.
It was a shock to see Ron and Hermione standing exactly where he had left them, Hermione still holding Lily’s letter, Ron at her side looking slightly anxious.
Didn’t they realize how far they had traveled in the last few minutes?
“This is it,” Harry said, trying to bring them inside the glow of his own astonished certainty.
“This explains everything.
The Deathly Hallows are real, and I’ve got one — maybe two —”
He held up the Snitch.
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“— and You-Know-Who’s chasing the third, but he doesn’t realize . . . he just thinks it’s a powerful wand —”
“Harry,” said Hermione, moving across to him and handing him back Lily’s letter, “I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got this wrong, all wrong.”
“But don’t you see?
It all fits —”
“No, it doesn’t,” she said.
“It doesn’t, Harry, you’re just getting carried away.
Please,” she said as he started to speak, “please just answer me this: If the Deathly Hallows really existed, and Dumbledore knew about them, knew that the person who possessed all three of them would be master of Death — Harry, why wouldn’t he have told you?
Why?”
He had his answer ready.
“But you said it, Hermione!
You’ve got to find out about them for yourself!
It’s a Quest!”
“But I only said that to try and persuade you to come to the Lovegoods’!” cried Hermione in exasperation.
“I didn’t really believe it!”
Harry took no notice.
“Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for myself.
He let me try my strength, take risks.
This feels like the kind of thing he’d do.”
“Harry, this isn’t a game, this isn’t practice!
This is the real thing, and Dumbledore left you very clear instructions: Find and destroy the Horcruxes!
That symbol doesn’t mean anything, forget the Deathly Hallows, we can’t afford to get sidetracked —”
Harry was barely listening to her.
He was turning the Snitch over and over in his hands, half expecting it to break open, to reveal the Resurrection Stone, to prove to Hermione that he was right, that the Deathly Hallows were real.
She appealed to Ron.
“You don’t believe in this, do you?”
Harry looked up.
Ron hesitated.
“I dunno . . . I mean . . . bits of it sort of fit together,” said Ron awkwardly.
“But when you look at the whole thing . . .”
He took a deep breath.
“I think we’re supposed to get rid of Horcruxes, Harry.
That’s what Dumbledore told us to do.
Maybe . . . maybe we should forget about this Hallows business.”
“Thank you, Ron,” said Hermione.
“I’ll take first watch.”
And she strode past Harry and sat down in the tent entrance, bringing the action to a fierce full stop.
But Harry hardly slept that night.
The idea of the Deathly Hallows had taken possession of him, and he could not rest while agitating thoughts whirled through his mind: the wand, the stone, and the Cloak, if he could just possess them all.
I open at the close.
But what was ‘the close’?
Why couldn’t he have the stone now?
If only he had the stone, he could ask Dumbledore these questions in person . . .
And Harry murmured words to the Snitch in the darkness, trying everything, even Parseltongue, but the golden ball would not open.
And the wand, the Elder Wand, where was that hidden?
Where was Voldemort searching now?
Harry wished his scar would burn and show him Voldemort’s thoughts, because for the first time ever, he and Voldemort were united in wanting the very same thing.
Hermione would not like that idea, of course.
But then, she did not believe . . . Xenophilius had been right, in a way . . .
Limited.
Narrow.
Close-minded.
The truth was that she was scared of the idea of the Deathly Hallows, especially of the Resurrection Stone . . .
And Harry pressed his mouth again to the Snitch, kissing it, nearly swallowing it, but the cold metal did not yield.
It was nearly dawn when he remembered Luna, alone in a cell in Azkaban, surrounded by dementors, and he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
He had forgotten all about her in his feverish contemplation of the Hallows.
If only they could rescue her; but dementors in those numbers would be virtually unassailable.
Now he came to think about it, he had not yet tried casting a Patronus with the blackthorn wand.
He must try that in the morning.
If only there was a way of getting a better wand.
And desire for the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, unbeatable, invincible, swallowed him once more.
They packed up the tent next morning and moved on through a dreary shower of rain.
The downpour pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the tent that night, and persisted through the whole week, through sodden landscapes that Harry found bleak and depressing.
He could think only of the Deathly Hallows.
It was as though a flame had been lit inside him that nothing, not Hermione’s flat disbelief nor Ron’s persistent doubts, could extinguish.
And yet the fiercer the longing for the Hallows burned inside him, the less joyful it made him.
He blamed Ron and Hermione: Their determined indifference was as bad as the relentless rain for dampening his spirits, but neither could erode his certainty, which remained absolute.
Harry’s belief in and longing for the Hallows consumed him so much that he felt quite isolated from the other two and their obsession with the Horcruxes.
“Obsession?” said Hermione in a low fierce voice, when Harry was careless enough to use the word one evening, after Hermione had told him off for his lack of interest in locating more Horcruxes.
“We’re not the ones with an obsession, Harry!
We’re the ones trying to do what Dumbledore wanted us to do!”
But he was impervious to the veiled criticism.
Dumbledore had left the sign of the Hallows for Hermione to decipher, and he had also, Harry remained convinced of it, left the Resurrection Stone hidden in the golden Snitch.
Neither can live while the other survives . . . master of Death . . . Why didn’t Ron and Hermione understand?
“‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,’” Harry quoted calmly.
“I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to be fighting?”
Hermione retorted, and Harry gave up on her.
Even the mystery of the silver doe, which the other two insisted on discussing, seemed less important to Harry now, a vaguely interesting sideshow.
The only other thing that mattered to him was that his scar had begun to prickle again, although he did all he could to hide this fact from the other two.
He sought solitude whenever it happened, but was disappointed by what he saw.
The visions he and Voldemort were sharing had changed in quality; they had become blurred, shifting as though they were moving in and out of focus.
Harry was just able to make out the indistinct features of an object that looked like a skull, and something like a mountain that was more shadow than substance.
Used to images sharp as reality, Harry was disconcerted by the change.
He was worried that the connection between himself and Voldemort had been damaged, a connection that he both feared and, whatever he had told Hermione, prized.
Somehow Harry connected these unsatisfying, vague images with the destruction of his wand, as if it was the blackthorn wand’s fault that he could no longer see into Voldemort’s mind as well as before.
As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but notice, even through his new self-absorption, that Ron seemed to be taking charge.
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Perhaps because he was determined to make up for having walked out on them, perhaps because Harry’s descent into listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities, Ron was the one now encouraging and exhorting the other two into action.
“Three Horcruxes left,” he kept saying.
“We need a plan of action, come on!
Where haven’t we looked?
Let’s go through it again.
The orphanage . . .”
Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and Burkes, Albania, every place that they knew Tom Riddle had ever lived or worked, visited or murdered, Ron and Hermione raked over them again, Harry joining in only to stop Hermione pestering him.
He would have been happy to sit alone in silence, trying to read Voldemort’s thoughts, to find out more about the Elder Wand, but Ron insisted on journeying to ever more unlikely places simply, Harry was aware, to keep them moving.
“You never know,” was Ron’s constant refrain.
“Upper Flagley is a Wizarding village, he might’ve wanted to live there.
Let’s go and have a poke around.”
These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought them within occasional sight of Snatchers.
“Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters,” said Ron.
“The lot that got me were a bit pathetic, but Bill reckons some of them are really dangerous.
They said on Potterwatch —”
“On what?” said Harry.
“Potterwatch, didn’t I tell you that’s what it was called?
The program I keep trying to get on the radio, the only one that tells the truth about what’s going on!
Nearly all the programs are following You-Know-Who’s line, all except Potterwatch.
I really want you to hear it, but it’s tricky tuning in...”
Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of the wireless while the dials whirled.
Occasionally they would catch snatches of advice on how to treat dragon pox, and once a few bars of “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love.”
While he tapped, Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password, muttering strings of random words under his breath.
“They’re normally something to do with the Order,” he told them.
“Bill had a real knack for guessing them. I’m bound to get one in the end. . . .”
But not until March did luck favor Ron at last.
Harry was sitting in the tent entrance, on guard duty, staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron shouted excitedly from inside the tent.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it! Password was ‘Albus’! Get in here, Harry!”
Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly Hallows, Harry hurried back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione kneeling on the floor beside the little radio.
Hermione, who had been polishing the sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice was issuing.
“. . . apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters.”
“But that’s Lee Jordan!” said Hermione.
“I know!” beamed Ron. “Cool, eh?”
“. . . now found ourselves another secure location,” Lee was saying, “and I’m pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. Evening, boys!”
“Hi.”
“Evening, River.”
“‘River,’ that’s Lee,” Ron explained.
“They’ve all got code names, but you can usually tell —”
“Shh!” said Hermione.
“But before we hear from Royal and Romulus,” Lee went on, “let’s take a moment to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don’t think important enough to mention.
It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell.”
Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly.
He, Ron, and Hermione gazed at one another in horror.
“A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed.
It is believed that Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped.
If Dean is listening, or if anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate for news.
“Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in their home.
Muggle authorities are attributing the deaths to a gas leak, but members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse — more evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little more than a recreational sport under the new regime.
“Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda Bagshot have been discovered in Godric’s Hollow.
The evidence is that she died several months ago.
The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.
“Listeners, I’d like to invite you now to join us in a minute’s silence in memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters.”
Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not speak.
Half of Harry yearned to hear more, half of him was afraid of what might come next.
It was the first time he had felt fully connected to the outside world for a long time.
“Thank you,” said Lee’s voice.
“And now we turn to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.”
“Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring.
“Kingsley!” burst out Ron.
“We know!” said Hermione, hushing him.
“Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” said Kingsley.
“However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge.
I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street.
Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.”
“And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be ‘Wizards first’?” asked Lee.
“I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’” replied Kingsley.
“We’re all human, aren’t we?
Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.”
“Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” said Lee.
“And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’”
“Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper.
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“We know it’s Lupin!”
“Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?”
“I do,” said Lupin firmly.
“There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime.
‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”
A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry.
Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met?
“And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?”
“I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly.
“And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.”
Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears.
“Nearly always right,” she repeated.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise.
“Bill told me Lupin’s living with Tonks again!
And apparently she’s getting pretty big too. . . .”
“. . . and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee was saying.
“Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Lupin.
“At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron.
“We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid” — all three of them gasped, and so nearly missed the rest of the sentence — “well-known gamekeeper at Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to have hosted a ‘Support Harry Potter’ party in his house.
However, Hagrid was not taken into custody, and is, we believe, on the run.”
“I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you’ve got a sixteen-foot-high half brother?” asked Lee.
“It would tend to give you an edge,” agreed Lupin gravely.
“May I just add that while we here at Potterwatch applaud Hagrid’s spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of Harry’s supporters against following Hagrid’s lead.
‘Support Harry Potter’ parties are unwise in the present climate.”
“Indeed they are, Romulus,” said Lee.
“So we suggest that you continue to show your devotion to the man with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatch!
And now let’s move to news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter.
We like to refer to him as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating about him, I’d like to introduce a new correspondent: Rodent.”
“‘Rodent’?” said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione cried out together:
“Fred!”
“No — is it George?”
“It’s Fred, I think,” said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was said,
“I’m not being ‘Rodent,’ no way, I told you I wanted to be ‘Rapier’!”
“Oh, all right then. ‘Rapier,’ could you please give us your take on the various stories we’ve been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?”
“Yes, River, I can,” said Fred.
“As our listeners will know, unless they’ve taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who’s strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic.”
“Mind you, if all the alleged sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the place.”
“Which suits him, of course,” said Kingsley.
“The air of mystery is creating more terror than actually showing himself.”
“Agreed,” said Fred.
“So, people, let’s try and calm down a bit.”
“Things are bad enough without inventing stuff as well.”
“For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill with a single glance from his eyes.”
“That’s a basilisk, listeners.”
“One simple test: Check whether the thing that’s glaring at you has got legs.”
“If it has, it’s safe to look into its eyes, although if it really is You-Know-Who, that’s still likely to be the last thing you ever do.”
For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was laughing.
He could feel the weight of tension leaving him.
“And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?” asked Lee.
“Well, who wouldn’t want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he’s been putting in?” asked Fred.
“Point is, people, don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he’s out of the country.”
“Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don’t count on him being a long way away if you’re planning on taking any risks.”
“I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but safety first!”
“Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier,” said Lee.
“Listeners, that brings us to the end of another Potterwatch.”
“We don’t know when it will be possible to broadcast again, but you can be sure we shall be back.”
“Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’”
“Keep each other safe: Keep faith.”
“Good night.”
The radio’s dial twirled and the lights behind the tuning panel went out.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still beaming.
Hearing familiar, friendly voices was an extraordinary tonic.
Harry had become so used to their isolation he had nearly forgotten that other people were resisting Voldemort.
It was like waking from a long sleep.
“Good, eh?” said Ron happily.
“Brilliant,” said Harry.
“It’s so brave of them,” sighed Hermione admiringly.
“If they were found . . .”
“Well, they keep on the move, don’t they?” said Ron.
“Like us.”
“But did you hear what Fred said?” asked Harry excitedly; now the broadcast was over, his thoughts turned again toward his all-consuming obsession.
“He’s abroad! He’s still looking for the Wand, I knew it!”
“Harry —”
“Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol —”
“HARRY, NO!”
“— demort’s after the Elder Wand!”
“The name’s Taboo!” Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded outside the tent.
“I told you, Harry, I told you, we can’t say it anymore — we’ve got to put the protection back around us — quickly — it’s how they find —”
But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why.
The Sneakoscope on the table had lit up and begun to spin.
They could hear voices coming nearer and nearer: rough, excited voices.
Ron pulled the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked it.
Their lamps went out.
“Come out of there with your hands up!” came a rasping voice through the darkness.
“We know you’re in there! You’ve got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don’t care who we curse!”